


The Song a Bird Sings

by rixsig-writes (rixsig)



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, a bit of blood and violence, got some angst up in here, hospital au, somehow some fluff too, spoilers: the hospital is not ethical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 21:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13533162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixsig/pseuds/rixsig-writes
Summary: Saeran's been stuck in this place for years now. He's long past given up hope. He's exactly the kind of broken that deserves to be here.But the arrival of a new, unusual patient changes everything.





	The Song a Bird Sings

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this for approximately a billion years, but i finally dusted it off and now it seems im just in time for the very day of ray's route to be released. happy saeran day to all 
> 
> song lyrics mentioned in order: [g-dragon, missing you], [exo, wolf], [dbsk, love in the ice]

1.

Malnutrition, trauma, immunodeficiency, mental instability...Saeran knows why he’s here; the thing he doesn't understand is why _that_ man is here—the one who looks like illness has never touched him a day in his life, the one who gets escorted around by two strong nurses and a glint-eyed man with a lab coat and clipboard, the one who looks at passing windows with the soul-sickness of a caged bird.

That, Saeran understands.

If he were stronger…if he were stronger...maybe he’d break down every last bar of this cage, break it down into the dust...and then maybe one day he’d hear how beautiful a freed bird sings.

2.

Saeran learns a lot just by keeping quiet and listening to the idle gossip of bored nurses out in the hallways, storing up the scattered scraps of information like he used to hoard food, always, always, always hungry.

The man is a medical marvel, a breakthrough for science, and the nurses whisper that if they unlock those secrets the landscape of medicine will change forever. But Saeran sees every time the man is escorted past his room with a new wound and a waxy face and doubts they’ll ever get there.

3.

“Nothing?! You haven’t found _anything_ yet?”

“The results are inconclusive,” says the man with the clipboard in a carefully measured tone, seemingly unmoved by the anxiousness in the caged bird’s voice. “We’ve mentioned before that this process may take quite some time.”

“But when you get it, when you figure it out...it’ll...it’ll help him, right?” the bird asks back, and while Saeran sees the doctor nod as the entourage passes by his door he doesn't see the answering reaction, whether the bird’s feathers have truly been smoothed back down or whether that uncertainty still lingers like a splinter to the heart.

4.

For a while after Saeran doesn't see him again and for a while the worst of the bad days comes back, the splitting headache and the memories and the screaming and the anger and the nurses with their needles and straps to tie him down until all he can do is stare at a blank ceiling with equally blank thoughts.

“He knocked four of us right out, just kept shaking us off until almost every worker on that floor was on him, crazy right?”

At first he thinks they're talking about him until his fuzzy brain finally pins down the voice—that’s the caged bird’s nurse, not his.

5.

Saeran fades in and out for who knows how long—none of the nurses talk to him or answer his questions anymore—but when he fully comes back to himself, splayed out in bed with his limbs still bound, there’s something different, something new...a voice he knows coming from the other side of the wall, lilting and warm and lonely.

“So birdie really does sing,” Saeran murmurs, awed and half-convinced he’s hallucinating. After all why would the vacant room next door suddenly have the one person here he gives a shit about? The world never just gives him what he wants like this.

And yet the voice keeps singing, on and on into the night until the sun rises, and not a soul complains, and not a soul bangs on that door to get him to stop.

6.

When Saeran’s released from his bonds the very first thing he does with his newfound freedom is tap on the wall in Morse Code, though after waiting patiently the only thing he gets back is an exact echo tapped in reply—still a good sign, he reminds himself, excitement rising.

It means birdie’s willing to play.

7.

It isn’t until nighttime when the smaller graveyard shift takes over and the patients are supposed to be sleeping that Saeran dares try something else, turning in his bed to face the wall and speaking in what he hopes is a normal, conversational tone: “Your singing was beautiful.”

A long moment of silence, and then, “Oh...you heard that? I didn’t know I had such a nice audience listening in or I might have put some more effort into it, haha.”

Even muffled like this the reply sends Saeran’s heart slamming against his ribs, somehow shocked that he’s actually gotten here to this point, talking to this man he’s been watching since he got here. “No, it was fine. It was perfect.”

“Yeah?” he says, sounding incredibly pleased.

“Yeah.”

8.

Days pass and Saeran’s not sure what else to say. He watches when the doctor comes, when birdie leaves and then later when he comes back, all foggy with anesthetics. He wants to talk. He wants to say something. He wants to hear birdie sing again.

9.

“So,” Saeran tries, throwing out his only real question in a fit of desperation, “why are you here?”

“Woah! I didn’t know you were still there.” The bird laughs, surprised and embarrassed. “Why am I here? I, uh, I lost my temper. They said something about ‘relocating me’ to a ‘more secure room.’ I didn’t know people actually talked like that in real life.”

“No, not your room. How did you get _here_.”

“Ah. That, huh. Well, I was in a motorcycle crash, woke up in the ICU, and then…” Birdie falls quiet. For a while Saeran thinks that’s all the story he’s going to hear, but then later: “Hey, do you have any siblings...? I have one, an older brother. Hadn’t seen him or my parents in years, but when I woke up there my parents were, and they said he was...” One shuddering breath, then another. “They told me if I stayed here we could save him.”

The hair on Saeran’s arms stands straight up and his hands clench white-knuckled into his bedsheets. He knows this story, deep in his bones and in his blood. One brother suffers for the other to survive.

10.

If anything that talk feeds his hunger rather than sates it, but now Saeran really has nothing left in him for conversation. He spends another stretch of days agonizing, playing and replaying fake exchanges between the two of them and feeling increasingly disgusted with himself. No wonder he’s in here. He can’t even think about this without feeling his heart pound and his throat clog.

11.

But then…

“Hey,” birdie says.

Saeran says nothing.

“You still there?”

Saeran swallows, grabs a tight hold of his own hair, breathes. “Yeah.”

“Oh good,” birdie says with...relief?

And then birdie’s talking. To him. About old coworkers at an old part-time job, about his beat-up guitar and how he can never seem to keep the callouses when he plays it, about that guy that kept following him around trying to scout him for some sketchy sounding modeling job, about the nicotine cravings he’s getting because nobody here’ll give him a smoke.

Slowly, Saeran’s fingers relax.

“Sorry,” birdie says, “it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to talk to.”

“Yeah...me too.”

12.

Birdie’s always awake after curfew so they end up talking more frequently than Saeran could have ever hoped for, scraps of conversation stolen out from under the hospital’s nose. Weeks pass with Saeran always looking forward to the dead of night.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Ice-cream,” Saeran admits, lips twitching up as he ignores birdie’s protest that ice-cream doesn’t count as a food. “But I’ll kill you if you tell anyone else. What’s yours?”

“I like almost anything as long as it’s not too weird. Kebobs, fried chicken, salad...What about a favorite color?”

Saeran blinks. Favorite color. He thinks of what his hair used to look like back when he could bleach it, the color birdie’s hair is right now. “White.”

“Oh? ...does white count as a color?”

“Duh. Why wouldn’t it? Now tell me yours.”

“Hm...you know I’ve never thought about it?” He takes a second, then says with full confidence, “The moon.”

Saeran’s high-pitched, wheezy laughter bursts out of him. “The moon’s definitely not a fucking color.”

“No, I mean, the color of the moon! You know, moon-colored!”

“So...white, then.”

Birdie’s in the middle of a loud retort when a worker bangs on his door and yells at him about quiet hours. Both of them fall silent and listen as the sound of footsteps fades away. Saeran feels a prickle of unease realizing he hadn’t even heard that one coming. He always hears them coming. Why hadn’t he heard it?

“Favorite song,” birdie says quietly after a while.

“Don’t have one.”

So birdie starts singing him a few, just so he can pick one out.

13.

Saeran starts taking extra care to behave very nicely—like a quiet, obedient patient who takes all his medicine and eats all his food and never, ever fights back. His sudden change of heart makes the nurses suspicious, but his persistence eventually pays off: before too long he gets privileges he hasn’t had in a long time, ones he’s never really cared about until now.

The first thing he asks for is pen and paper, the second is access to the cafeteria. One day they’ll be there at the same time and he’ll meet his songbird face-to-face.

14.

Saeran drops a piece of folded paper on the floor one day, casually slides it under the neighboring door with his foot as he walks past it, out of sight of the security camera.

You can’t really believe they’re going to do it.

The same note is slipped back under his door with new writing hours later:

_I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude_

Saeran tastes his failure as he rips the note up and eats it piece by piece. The nurses find nothing but idle, half-finished poetry in his room the next day.

15.

They still talk at night. Birdie never brings it up. Saeran wonders if that’s because part of him knows it isn’t safe to.

16.

“I’m leaving,” birdie declares when the doctor comes a week later, tone firm and brooking no argument.

“I’m afraid that’s not allowed.”

“What? Why?!”

“You can’t sign yourself out,” the doctor replies tonelessly, as if reciting a script. “You’ve been declared unfit to make those decisions. As next of kin your parents currently have power of attorney.”

“Unfit?! You…” The disbelief in birdie’s voice makes something in Saeran ache. “You can’t force me to stay here! Here, just give me the phone. I’ll call them. They’ll...they’ll come and sign me out or whatever!”

For a long, stretched moment no one speaks, and Saeran imagines the way birdie would stare defiantly into the doctor’s eyes, fire in his heart.

Calm as ever the doctor replies, “You’re welcome to try.”

17.

A note slides under Saeran’s door:

_I’m sorry._

~~_I wasn’t trying to_ ~~

_I just really wanted to be wrong_

_You’re right_

_There’s something really messed up about this place._

18.

I want to save you, Saeran thinks.

Maybe we could find a way to leave

You don’t belong here like I do, Saeran thinks.

They shouldn’t be able to do this to you

Birdie’s reply comes back the next day:

_Leave? Like escape?_

_Sounds like a prison-break from a movie lol_

_But I’d rather follow you than anyone else_

Saeran doesn’t want to destroy this one. He holds it in his hands as long as he dares and then tears into it slowly, dutifully eating it down. He hopes traces of it stay with him forever.

19.

Finally with the help of the notes they pass Saeran manages to get them in the same place at the same time.

Birdie pulls a chair and sits across from him at the cafeteria and Saeran barely remembers how to breathe. Is this real? God. He’s so close Saeran could reach a hand out and touch him.

Birdie notices. He grins, and it’s the happiest look Saeran’s ever seen on him. “Dazzled?” He leans forward on his elbows over the table, preening. “Good to know I’m still a work of art even when I’m not at my best~”

The flippant retort dies on Saeran’s tongue as he’s suddenly overcome with a different urge. “A work of art, huh?” Saeran says instead, smirking and leaning in himself until they’re way too close. A thrill of satisfaction sings up his nerves at the way birdie’s eyes widen. “How do you want me to appreciate you?”

Birdie sputters and goes red and just the memory of that carries Saeran through on a high for the rest of the day.

20.

“Hey...”

Saeran jolts. He’s on his back, a familiar ceiling above him. He can’t move. Why can’t he move? He jerks and shakes but it changes nothing.

“Hey, are you okay?” the voice comes from the next room over.

“Fine,” Saeran croaks back. He frantically combs back through what he remembers, but the whole day is a blank. How much time has passed? It’s the straps. The straps are on him again. Did he scream? His throat hurts.

Birdie doesn’t reply and panic quickens Saeran’s breath. Birdie isn’t like him. This isn’t normal. Birdie won’t like this.

“Do you…” birdie ventures after a moment that feels like an eternity, “Uh. Is there anything I can—”

“Don’t,” Saeran bites out.

21.

Birdie watches him carefully the next time they meet, but Saeran stays cold, giving nothing away.

22.

“I still feel like you’re there next to me everyday when I open my eyes~” birdie sings beseechingly through the wall. “Can’t we turn back the times that we’ve been together~?”

Despite his recent bad mood Saeran’s mouth quirks up. “...why are so many of these stupid songs about love?”

“Dude, I can’t help what they play on the radio.”

“...”

“Come on, who doesn’t like romance?!”

“I don’t. Sing something else.”

“What? It’s not like I’m serenading you, gross.”

“ _Sing_ something _else_.”

“Alright, alright, here. How’s this,” birdie says with laughter in his voice, “That’s right, I’m a wolf, awoooooooooo~♪”

Saeran bangs on the wall in retaliation, but he’s feeling better now than he has in days.

23.

How good are you with computers?

_Uh...I’ve never owned one before lol_

Hm. I’ll think of something.

24.

They develop a system. Saeran writes strings of code and passes them under the door. Birdie uses his wider array of privileges to peck them slowly and painstakingly into the hospital’s library computer. After a while, Saeran gains him administrator access. It doesn’t take much longer after that to open access to the security camera network. Saeran goes about teaching him how to shut everything down when the time comes.

After that it’s just a matter of locks and keys.

25.

“You know...I don’t know if we should actually do this…”

Saeran’s fork slowly drops back down to his plate. Suddenly his stomach feels full of lead. “What do you mean.”

Birdie’s leg fidgets, talking so low under his breath it’s almost inaudible. “Someone’s got to notice something’s wrong. They won’t be able to keep getting away with doing shit like this forever, right?”

“Who will notice?” Saeran challenges, “How long do you think that disgusting doctor’s been here doing whatever the fuck he wants? How many years?”

Birdie says nothing and comprehension dawns.

“You're still hoping your family wants you,” Saeran accuses, a thick, bitter empathy churning in his stomach, “that after all this time they’ll come back and say they're sorry. They're not fucking sorry. And they’re never coming back.”

Birdie doesn’t talk to him for a while after that...doesn’t sing, doesn’t tap back, falling so quiet that fear seizes Saeran’s heart. He’d said too much, pushed too hard too soon. Songbirds are fragile, he knows that, but he just couldn’t stand birdie letting himself suffer at the hands of liars. Saeran hadn’t meant to break him. He really hadn’t. He’d just forgotten how painful the truth could be to people who’ve never heard it before.

Saeran taps on the wall. He gets silence back.

He taps on the wall.

He taps on the wall.

He taps on the wall.

...

He curls up in his bed and tugs on his own hair until tears spring into his eyes. He hates this.

26.

The next sequence of days is a long, grey blur. Sometimes he eats. Most of the time he forgets to. He lays in bed and doesn’t resist when his nurse comes in to spoon slop into his mouth and shove pills past his tongue. He stares. He sleeps.

27.

After a while the fog lifts enough that he picks up a pen hovers it over paper. Nothing comes out. Frustration builds, hand shaking the longer he hesitates. He throws the pen violently across the room and doesn’t feel better.

Birdie walks past his room soon after, looking dazed and surrounded by the usual lab escort. Those hazy red eyes peer in, pause...and then slip right past him.

???.

h͕̞͉̫̞̤̒̉é̘̘͎͔ͅ’̮͚̠̠̯̜̀̇͑͒ͪ͠l̢͙͙̻͊͑̑̈́l̰͓̪̥̈́̃ͪ̅ͯͥ ̼̘͌͜l̜̯͐͋̿̌̽ḙ̦́ͦ͛̏a̧̲̿ͭ̓͑v̺̝̓̓̓ͪeͩ̆͏͍ ͗ͮ̄̓̅̆̿̕h͔e̻̘͇̬̮̟̝͌͌͋̍͑̉̓’̯͙̬̱̯̌ͪ̂̓ͪ͛̾͞l͕͊͗̿l̖͔̰̳̙͙ͨ͑ ̤͙̰̭̫̖̿̀͑̀̋l̫̟̦̜̫͑ͬͥ̋ͅe͗a̳̘̮̲͖ͅv͗̾͊̉̐͒ͪẽ̝̬̳̬͎̐͑ ̫̺̆͢ͅh̻͐ͦ̍ͬẹ̥͙̜̋̒ͬ̌̏ͅ’̑͆̄ͦl͌ͦ̓̃̇͠ľ̺͈̬̬̫ͧ̐͑͑̍̈́̕ ͈̰̤̫̚͘n̝̺͔̭̘̟̼̓ͣͭ̍̐̌e͇͔̍͞v̮̖̊ͅe͚̪̭̩͂̉r̄ͪ̿ ͬ̐͑̀͌ţ̫͉̙̱͓͈̋ͧ́̋́̂ͅaͧ̄͡l҉k̹̲̝̱̾̓̎ͤ̂ͦ͡ ͕̻̦̔ẗ̵͔́ͬo̖͔̭ͤ̐̀̿̚͜ ͭ̄͛ͬ̏m̗͓̽ͭ̍é͓̠̍̀ͫ͊̌ a̴̱ͫ̌̇̓̾͐ͥgͬ҉̪ä̭́͆ͯ͝i̯̖̰͍͗͋̔̔̾͐ṇ̯̼̌ͯ́̒ͤͪͤ ̧̏̍ͮͭi͇̥͈͇̘̦͐̈́͝m̱͔͓̝̞̻̝͆͐ ͍̞̼̀̊̊̔ͣa̓̿͡l̊̂̇͝ͅo̵͇̹̻̼̾n̰ͯ̊̆ͪͮͫͮ͝e̩͓̜̙ͯ͊͑ ͙̘̮i͎̩̘̽̎͡ͅm̹ͯ͂͌̄ ̺̻̑̀̉̑a͈͇̻ͥl̉̈́̍ő͖̖̤͈̩̘͍n͍̩̏͢e͖̰͍̤̯̠ͫ̾͒ͫ̎ ̩̩̹̝͓̼̤̇̏̕a̮̟̜̥͓̗̅̓̐̾̍̑̚͘g̖͈̖̫̜͚͍̋̏͂ͥa̤̓ͪ̔ͥ̊̈́i̥̮̘̥͇̬̬͐̌̈́̇ͤ͞n̙̲͔̞͕͖ͧ ̲͖͖̿͂ͮ͆a̟̠̪̖̭͇̮͋͐n͒̇̑ͨ҉̘͈̙d̳̭̦̙ͣ ͍̳͍̞͉̫ͪiͪ̾ͧͤͧ̈́͏̩̱͔̞̮ ̧̰̿͂ͪͥ̄̅̂b̟̱͙͔̊̄̄͆̌rͯ͊ͩ͌ͦ̇̽͟o̦̻̬̹͔̽̾k̷̭̻̮̻̲̤ͮͬ̈́̉̉̎è͎͖͖ ̗͍͟ͅi͙̞ͨ̽͠t҉͙̣̼ ̐̑̄͏̙̖̭̻͈ï̧̞̺̮̫̑͒̂͂ ̃̉͒̄̐b͇ͧͫr̭͚̄ͯ̇̈o͙͌̓ͭ͊̆k̰͕̤̭̘ͭͦ̿͆͑͆͘e̤̝͈͇̓ͅ ͓̬͇̠̈͊e͙͉̥̝͎̪͇v̢e̛̘͙̍̿ͬ̀̅͛ͧr͍͒ͯy̲̏̒̇̈̎ͪt̘͈̎̌̇̾̔hͧ̾̊͆͏̗̱̰̝͚̹ị͉͂nͥģ͓̜͙̝̉̊ ͍̞̻̤̥ͭ̐̋͜i̷͓͍͌ͤͅ ̛̞̄͒ͯ̋d͍͙̟͕ͣ̓ͫͮ̒́̀ͅe̼͖ͯ͑̄ͫ̀͋̐͘s̷̾̔͆͗ͭ́͒e͐̓̄͒̀̽ř͙̮̯̦̃̐̍ͮ̎̾v̦͙̪ͩ̈̾͛̆e͕̬ͣ̅ ̞͕͐t͎ͧ̔͑͌͑͝h͙̭̭̻̓ͫ̂̅i̦̓͛̄́̽͐̐s̒ͣ̃͑̿ ͓h̑̍͂ͩͯe̬͙͚͊͋ ͙̼ͅw͍͚ͥͪ͡ŏ͇̼͕̻͇̘̉̆ṇ̺̭̠͈̠͇͛̑ͪ̎̎̒͠ẗ́͋͆̈́̾̅҉ ̸̰̯̜̭͖̣̦ͭ̇l̡̼̲̲͓͎̭͉ͭó̺̤̮̾ͫͤͦ͛̃o̦͉̦ͩͣ͑̽̊̌k̺̠̹̱͙͂ ̠̘͖ͥ̍͒a̛͚̻͖̜͋t͔̘̂̉ͥ̃ͮͥ̚͡ ͑͊ͭ̈́͐͗ͫm̙̞̯̟̦͇͔̿̄̅̂͌͐ẹ̰͎̙͔̺̓̔ ̙̣̮͓̦͛̍̾̄͑̉ͅl̙̦̈́͆͌ͧ̋̈͜ȍō͓̥̟͔̻ͪ̏ͧ̾k͔͔̤ ͔͍̮̟̳̗̎̂̒͋͘a͉͕̜͖͑ͅt̲̙̎͐́̑͌ͯ͘ ̸͖̜̘̱̩̟̱̆͌m͑͑͐ͅͅé̩͇̙̬̎ͫ̓͗ ̟̮̼̤̜̞͛̑̉͌͛ͩ͋̕s̻̪̠̜ͯ̾ͨa͚͎͓͚̦͊̊̿̽ͅy̲̣̺̣͉̒̏ ̠̗̳͓̫̘s̺͙̱̘̏̒ͣ͜o͕̙̲͙̺͇m̍ͮe̲̬̹̪̼͘t̳̼͕̣͕͕̿͋̈h̟ͣ̆̓̾͐ͤ̈́i̤̼͕̍ṇ̝̺̫͎͉̟ͧ̓̽ͬͧ͊͆g͏ ̧̬͕͙̅͋̂̈́ì̧͙̝͕͎͍͕̒ͫ̅̔̚ ͌̏ͫͤḩ̫͉̗̰̟ͪ̀ͨ͛a̼ͭͫ͊̈̑t͎͇͔̆e̩̳̰̺͋̆̑ͧ ̳̥͕͎̳̹̤̎ͪͤt̝͕̣͉̘͈̖ͦ̑ͮh̘̪̳͖̥ͦͥ̌̒͝ĭ̵̹̭̮͓͖͔̊s̥̞̥̪̿̿́ ̘͚̬̼̙̮̞̆i̩̙͊͂̅͊ ̡̤͔͓ͮ̎͂̾ͮ͑̒ḩ̥̙͈a͍͕͌ͣͫ̅ͮ̈͟t̖͔̲̆͊͗ͩ͠e̬̽̄ ͗̎͞ỵ̰̒̂ͨ͘o̶̦͑ͦ̓ͯ͌u̖͙̿͑ͧ͆̎ ̗̜̱i̩͓̰͖̥̍̅ͩ͌ͬ͘ ̜͕̟̰̆̍̿͑ͦͧh͈͕͉͑͛̽ͅa̧̖͒t̖̗̦̠̯̤͐̀͆̉e̷͎̝̾ͥ́͋ͥͦ ̃̈̏̐́ͧi̜͍̺͍̪̣ͩͩ̎ͅ ̨̖͓̝͚̥͚̳̒h̛̯̻̲̦̍͒͂͑͂ͩa̡̳̠̍̈́ͬͮ̓ͦt̜͖ͮͨ͐ͦe͚̗͚̰̗̬͂ ̳̱̤ͩͮͤͬ̄̔i̠̊̔̂̈ͫ́͛ ̸͚̟̹̞̪͋̊̊͑͊h̼̣̣͍̉̉̅͋a̢̬ͪt̟̲̥̣̮̍̊̏ͥe͍̟̐ͥ̄ͮ̎ͯ̐

30.

When he comes back to himself this time he has an angry restlessness he can’t shake off. Scrawled poetry layers over half-done sketches of unfocused eyes. He grows mountains of used scraps of paper, some of which he chokes down, the rest he tears up, tossing to lay like used confetti on the ground. He tells himself over and over again that this was bound to happen. Everyone will toss him aside because he’s stupid, careless, and weak, weak, weak, weak, wea—

Tap tap tap.

Saeran’s breath stops, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. Is that real?

Tap tap tap.

Fuck. _Fuck._ He should ignore it.

Tap tap tap.

He can’t respond. He can’t. He can’t. If birdie doesn’t throw him away now he will later. Saeran will be worse than this. He can be so much worse than this, fracture harder than this, hurt someone harder than this, but yet he’s still moving, toward the bed, climbing on top of it, hands reaching, pressing against the wall, fingers flexing, nails digging into paint. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. This is already too much, too close, too important. It’ll die, a rotten flower on the vine.

...tap tap tap.

And then Saeran taps back.

31.

Words still won’t come to him no matter how hard he tries so Saeran draws a flower and slips it under birdie’s door, and is somehow surprised when he gets a response back.

_Wow, it’s beautiful! I didn’t know you could draw._

_What kind of flower is it?_

A hyacinth.

A hyacinth for apologies.

Birdie sends a crudely drawn rose back, and even though Saeran knows he probably shouldn’t, he keeps it.

32.

Saeran can’t bear to take his eyes off of him. Seeing birdie in the flesh after everything...once again he feels the impulse to touch him and this time he doesn’t stop himself, reaching over the table, marveling at the feeling of smooth skin under his fingertip. He can feel the heat rise as that cheek flushes.

“H-Hey, what are you doing?” birdie says in weak protest. His hand on his fork twitches, but it’s like he’s just as transfixed. His eyes don’t move from Saeran’s face.

“Checking.”

“Checking what?”

“That you’re real.” It seems impossible that someone would want to stay around him when Saeran hasn’t done anything to force them to. Maybe birdie’s finally realized he really does want to leave after all, that Saeran’s his only hope of getting out.

But then birdie’s fingers are reaching too, tracing the scabs of scratch-marks on Saeran’s arms.

Saeran stiffens. “What are you doing.”

“Checking.”

And Saeran’s too afraid to ask what for.

33.

A nurse was careless and birdie has more skills and stickier fingers than Saeran gave him credit for. Saeran tells him to hide the keys in one of the cafeteria air vents—keeping them in either of their rooms would be too risky, a truth proven when all the rooms in their hall are frisked over the next day. Nothing is found, the keys are declared lost, and the nurse is fired.

Just the elevator pass left.

34.

There aren’t any real mirrors in their hall, just a long sheet of stainless steel above the sinks in the communal bathroom. Saeran always avoids looking at it. He doesn’t want to see what he looks like. He already hates the fringe of red hanging over his eyes, the neverending reminder. He doesn’t need to look ahead and see the spitting image of the brother that abandoned him.

But this time when he walks in birdie is already there, leaning in and scrutinizing himself so closely he could bore a hole into it. Saeran starts in surprise. This has never happened before. They’ve never met without planning it in advance.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and birdie jumps. “Woah!”

Saeran smirks but he feels suddenly off-balance. Breathless. They’re alone in here. No supervision, no cameras. Just a nurse halfway down the hall barely paying any attention. The freedom of it makes his heart quiver. He takes a step forward. “Appreciating yourself? I could do it better.”

“I...w-what??”

Saeran doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s already got birdie on the ground and suddenly everything makes perfect sense. He wants him. He wants him and he probably has about five minutes to do something about it, even less if another patient comes in and ruins the fun.

His songbird lies on the floor with his narrow hips pinned between Saeran’s legs, staring up at him frozen and wide-eyed, putting up no resistance. He’s the most beautiful thing Saeran’s ever seen, and Saeran can feel his own voice go high and thready as he speaks, “I told you, right, that I would? If I could I’d wrap you up in ribbon just like a present…”

Saeran’s throat tightens, killing his other words, and he can’t understand what expression his own face is making. What is this? It hurts. It’s never felt like this when he’s wanted anybody else.

Birdie stares back at him, barely breathing, until something resolves in his eyes and then abruptly he’s rolling them over, putting Saeran on his back. Saeran’s nails dig hard into birdie’s arms. He half wants to go ragdoll limp, half wants to scream and claw at him until he can escape.

Birdie leans in until the fringe of his hair kisses Saeran’s forehead, until their noses almost brush. “Are you really sure that’s all you want from me?”

Saeran can’t answer.

“‘Cause I don’t think that’s all I want from you.”

Birdie dips even lower then stops, their mouths the barest breath apart, and the arch of him above Saeran feels like the sky falling down, like the yawning vacuum of space. Saeran’s breath shuttles in and out of him faster and faster until his vision swims and all he sees is a swath of white and red, red eyes.

“Saeran,” birdie says, and hearing him call his name makes Saeran’s breath hitch and his body shudder.

Saeran’s hands grasp at birdie’s shoulder, at his neck, fumbling like a drowning man, each point of contact too much, a sensory overload. He pulls down and their lips connect and—

“Saeran...”

He can feel birdie mumble against his mouth in a sigh, can feel birdie’s hands carding through his hair and petting his face like he’s checking to make sure Saeran’s alright and Saeran feels like his seams are going to burst, like all his wicked insides are going to spill out the gaps and fall into the light. A screeching whine breaks free from his mouth when birdie’s lips pull away and as he blinks hazy wetness from his eyes he can see a creased brow, a concerned frown.

No. That’s not right. Birdie should never look at him that way.

His talon grip tightens on birdie’s shoulder and he yanks hard. Birdie rolls willingly this time and Saeran follows to pin him, hands pressing lax arms against the sparkling linoleum floor, that white hair haloing out from that beautiful face. Saeran’s frozen, mesmerized for a moment by the slow bob of birdie’s throat, and then he’s sealing their lips together again, over and over, too desperate to be careful about it. Saeran kisses him until everything’s slick, until his lips numb, until birdie’s fists clench and his muscles tremble with the effort of staying so still under him.

35.

Birdie has to leave first because he was the first to enter. Once he’s gone Saeran stumbles into a stall and sits, grabbing at his hair, shivering and raw. Enough time passes that a nurse comes to fetch him. Saeran’s thankful that the guy waits outside the stall for long enough that Saeran can pretend to piece himself back together.

36.

Birdie wants things from him.

Saeran wants things too.

Saeran doesn’t want to think about it. This isn’t something he can have.

37.

Saeran is quiet for days, but every time birdie taps he taps back, and every time birdie sings he listens like there’s no other sound on earth.

38.

Birdie draws him a rose. Then another, then another, then another. Saeran gathers them all up and counts. He has twelve now. A whole bouquet.

39.

Saeran draws him a gardenia back. His hand shakes so much making the lines that birdie probably wouldn’t be able to tell what it is, even if he did know anything about flowers. Saeran doesn’t tell him. Not even when birdie asks.

40.

Birdie’s voice is soulful tonight. He starts singing the moment the lights dim and the staff thins and goes on for hours, never tiring, never wavering. Each and every song is a song about love.

“Are you singing all these for me?” Saeran asks with a rusty voice.

A significant pause. “Maybe.”

Saeran swallows, nails digging into his palms. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“...keep singing.”

And he does. And Saeran lays there quietly and lets the iron band tighten by inches around his heart.

41.

“We don’t appreciate your recent uncooperative behavior. You’re highly resistant to sedative and any tampering with the tests could have unforeseen consequences. Do you not care about your brother’s welfare any longer?”

Birdie doesn’t make a sound.

“If that’s the case...” the doctor continues with deliberate slowness, “then I have no choice. I should inform you that we’ve noticed your closeness with the neighboring patient.”

Frigid ice fills Saeran’s spine. He can imagine the way birdie’s throat must click in the dead silence of the other room.

A tapping of a pen against the clipboard. “You know we could have you relocated at any time, put the other patient in solitary—”

“No!”

“—and if that fails to provoke better results…” A pause. “Well. Let’s just say we’re authorized to take drastic measures, if it ever becomes necessary.”

There’s a sudden scuffle, a cry, and then a sickening crunch. Saeran’s heart pounds. He wishes more than anything that he could just see what was happening, but he can spot a couple of birdie’s usual escort rush past, filtering into the adjacent room.

“If you can’t restrain...your violent tendencies…” the doctor threatens, suddenly nasally.

“You can’t,” birdie says, choked up, “you can’t do this. This isn’t right. None of this is right.”

“Ah, yes. You’d know about right and wrong, wouldn’t you. Your temper. The knife you had on you when you arrived here. We know your history, what kind of a person you are.”

“That wasn’t—!” birdie protests, voice full of guilt. “I didn’t have a choice! I was on the streets! I…if I could have done anything else, I...”

“Come,” the doctor commands. “Don’t make things difficult, Hyun. For you or your little...friend.”

Saeran holds his breath and after a few heartbeats hears birdie’s footsteps, the opening of a door, the sound of the procession heading towards the labs and getting further and further and further away.

42.

He’s gone longer than usual.

Hyun. His name is Hyun.

Saeran must have known that before.

43.

When the procession comes back it’s unusually late, far past curfew, and Saeran jumps as the door to his room swings open and someone is thrown in.

Someone is birdie. Birdie’s collapsed on the floor.

“Wrong room, asshole,” Saeran mutters to the doctor, frozen in place with his eyes fixed on birdie’s prone form. His hands twitch and he hides the movement in the covers of his bed.

“This is no mistake,” the doctor corrects. “It’s a reward. For good behavior.”

The instant the doctor is gone Saeran bolts to birdie’s side, knees hitting the floor. Birdie groans at Saeran’s touch, curling into himself and then peering up with hazed and glossy eyes. They’ve dosed him heavily and there’s a bandage around his leg. They’ve never wounded him there before. The wrongness of the situation shreds down Saeran’s nerves.

“What did they do to you,” he whispers.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” birdie keens, the whites of his eyes showing all around, “I don’t know. T-They put something in me, under the skin, but I don’t...I don’t know what it is.”

Saeran’s mind blanks.

Birdie’s hand blindly reaches for him and manages to latch on to his sleeve. “Saeran, Saeran…”

He sounds like he’s begging but doesn’t know what for, helpless and scared and drugged out of his mind. A wild bird with its wings clipped.

Saeran shakes, bows forward, rests his head against birdie’s shoulder, feels the rage in him rise and flow out of his mouth like burning lava. “I’ll kill them,” he vows, voice trembling and cracking, “I’ll fucking kill them. I’ll snap all their necks and burn this shithole to the ground.” He gathers him up in his arms, too tight to be comfortable. “I’ll make them scream. I’ll make them regret it. I’ll...I’ll… _fuck_...”

Saeran senses the hand rising, feels the fingers clumsily card through his hair and catch on his ear.

“Hyun,” Saeran chokes out.

44.

It’s a tracker. It’s a fucking tracker.

45.

All of Saeran’s plans crumble into dust. Did they know? Are they watching even closer than Saeran had accounted for? God, he’s so useless, useless, useless, useless…

They’ll just drag you back again. We can’t do it.

_...no. I think we still can._

Idiot.

_If they cut it in me then I can cut it back out, right?_

He doesn’t send a reply back.

46.

Somehow Hyun lifts a scalpel right from under the doctor’s nose. He stashes it with the keys in the cafeteria and this time no one even notices it’s missing. Saeran still doesn’t say anything.

47.

“If it was me, I'd make your heart warm once more with eternal tenderness~” Hyun sings.

Saeran snorts.

“Even if fate's games hurt the heart…” Hyun continues, “On the other side of the tears a ray of light will swoop down in the darkness~”

“How the fuck can you sing stuff like that in a place like this.” Saeran mutters, giving in.

“It doesn’t hurt to be an optimist, right?”

It does, but Saeran doesn’t say that.

48.

It takes a few days to figure out that Hyun’s started avoiding him, and a while longer still to fend off the invasive suspicion that the birdie’s given up on him, is plotting something against him.

“...would you believe I’m feeling shy?” Hyun jokes softly from the other side of the wall when Saeran confronts him.

Even as a joke it doesn’t make any sense to Saeran. “Why the hell would _you_ feel shy?”

“Hm. I guess I feel like my power’s been cut? It’s been bringing back some bad memories…” Hyun laughs morosely. “Sorry, sorry. I’m being pathetic, I know.”

Saeran’s brows furrow in frustration. “I don’t understand.”

“Hey, Saeran. Would you still want to run away together if I was ugly?”

“What?” What the hell happened to him? What did they do? Fear prickles at Saeran and his brain scrambles. He needs to say something here. Has he ever tried to comfort someone before? He doesn’t remember it. But the truth tumbles from Saeran’s lips anyway, like an awkward, unpolished jewel. “I. Y-You. That’s impossible. You couldn’t be ugly.”

“But,” Hyun insists, “what if I was?”

Saeran takes a moment. Swallows. Does his best to arrange his words one by one before he speaks and forces them past his clumsy tongue. “It doesn’t matter. You’d still be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

49.

They’d cut Hyun’s hair. Shaved it all right off.

Hyun tries to play it off casually now, says it was getting shaggy anyways, but even if that conversation about ugliness hadn’t happened Saeran can still see the way the light’s gone out of Hyun’s eyes, the way he hunches slightly in his seat when people look at him when before he’d sit proud and tall. It had meant something to him. And they’d fucking taken it away from him.

“You don’t belong in here,” Saeran spits, when what he really means is ‘you don’t deserve this.’

For a moment Hyun just looks sideswiped, but he must catch something in Saeran’s face because his own goes soft and warm. “Neither do you.”

50.

Saeran watches as birdie slowly gets smaller and grayer, watches as the hospital plucks his feathers out one by one. The final obstacle still looms large in front of them. They need the pass to the elevator. Saeran can’t figure out a way to nick one without it getting deactivated the very next day. There’s got to be something. Saeran has to believe there is. Time’s running out. He needs to get birdie out of here, before this downturn gets even worse.

Before this place breaks him.

51.

“Are you okay?” Saeran anxiously picks at his own cuticles under the table.

Hyun smiles, looking even more wan in this moment than when he comes back from the labs these days. “Fine. Just had a bad dream.”

Saeran has experience with those. He wonders what kind they are. Are they from his childhood, like most of Saeran’s? ...Are they about what they do to him in here?

Hyun must see his concern. “Don’t worry about it. I just keep waking up in a cold sweat and can’t get back to sleep. It’s taking a toll on my skin, huh? Haha...” Saeran almost doesn’t catch what he says next it’s spoken so softly. “I just wish it was a different kind of bad dream...”

“Was it—” Saeran bites off his sentence. Should he really be asking this? But the question spills out anyway. “Was it...real? Something that happened?”

“No.” Hyun buries his face in his hands and shivers once, fingers trying to clutch at hair that isn’t there anymore. “No, it hasn’t happened yet.”

52.

Finally the last piece of the puzzle strikes him. Saeran can see the way out.

I’ve figured out the elevator key.

Tomorrow night. Let’s go.

_What?! Seriously?!_

_Tomorrow...._

What…? Is there something wrong?

_No. I’m ready._

Saeran shakes the uneasiness from his heart. It doesn’t matter if birdie’s hiding something. It doesn’t even matter if birdie betrays him anymore. All Saeran wants is to set him free. That’s all Saeran’s wanted from the beginning. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. No matter what birdie says Saeran knows he’s the one who belongs here.

Saeran tears up the note, the last note, like so many others before it and eats it down.

53.

Saeran bangs on his own door in the middle of the night until an irritated nurse comes and then makes the man escort him to the bathroom. He stays in there long enough for the nurse to get impatient and follow him inside.

Saeran’s waiting.

He wraps his long fingers around the man’s neck and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes, until the eyes roll back and the twitching, scratching arms fall slack, and then even longer. Breathing hard, Saeran tries to lay him out carefully on the floor. Then he takes the elevator pass from his pocket and leaves.

He manages to skirt the security cameras until he arrives at the library, shutting them down, then makes a break for the cafeteria to fetch everything else before the skeleton crew realizes that something’s gone horribly wrong.

54.

Saeran returns with the keys and no scalpel. It hadn’t been there, and the only reason he can think of is that Hyun already grabbed it earlier. If that air vent had been discovered by anyone else there’d be no reason to take one thing and leave the other. And if Hyun already has the scalpel...

Saeran braces himself for what he’s likely to find as he unlocks birdie’s cage.

Hyun sits on the edge of his bed, a scrap of cloth torn from the sheets tied just below the knee like a crude tourniquet. He’s tying another, more layered scrap around his calf for a makeshift bandage. Saeran can’t see the cut—or cuts—but the white cloth is already showing through red and there’s a small puddle around the outside edge of his foot. His face is pallid and sweating, eyelashes wet with unshed tears.

“You...started without me,” is all Saeran can think to say.

“Didn’t wanna hold you up,” Hyun says lightly, though with noticeable strain. He reflexively tries to comb his hair back with his fingers and only manages to leave a streak of blood on his shaved head. “...didn’t want you to have to see it either.”

Saeran swallows down a hysterical giggle. That amount of consideration seems ridiculous aimed toward an unhinged, worthless man that just put a ring of bruises around someone’s neck. It hurts.

But.

“Thanks, pretty boy,” Saeran says. And he means it.

55.

Saeran takes Hyun’s arm over his shoulder and they stagger towards the elevator.

56.

A nightshift guard finds them first.

57.

Hyun tackles the man so hard his head slams in the wall with a crack, and he falls.

58.

Taking the elevator is risky, but while the pass opens the stairwell too Saeran knows they wouldn’t be fast enough. Hyun’s limping even worse now, a trickle of blood trailing down his ankle. But Hyun pulls him in that direction anyway with an almost desperate look and that kills all of Saeran’s protests.

59.

Hyun grunts down each stair, hand a clawed grip both on the rail and on Saeran’s shoulder, but he makes it all the way to the bottom without stopping once.

60.

Once they reach the landing Hyun pushes Saeran up against the wall and kisses him, a whirlwind of lips and tongue that engulfs him without warning before just as quickly lifting away. Hyun hands him something and Saeran’s fingers automatically close around it. It crinkles. Paper. Hyun embraces him tightly before he can look at it. His face buries itself in Saeran’s neck.

“Saeran...when you’re free what do you want to do?”

Saeran’s mouth opens. Closes. He hasn’t spared a thought to existing outside this place. He belongs here. He’s not allowed to have those things. “I want…” He stalls and then tries again. “I want to eat ice cream. And bleach my hair. Look at the clouds...and grow flowers…”

Saeran can feel the curve of Hyun’s smile. “Perfect. That sounds perfect, babe. Promise me you’ll do it?”

“I don’t…” Saeran’s brows pull together.

“Promise me. Please.”

And something about the way Hyun sounds like he’s going to cry draws an ‘I promise’ right out of him.

61.

The stairwell door opens and everything goes perfectly. No one is expecting them to come that way and they easily cross to a door that leads outside.

62.

Then the outside door opens and everything goes wrong.

63.

It’s snowing outside.

It’s snowing and there’s blood dripping down Hyun’s leg, red on Hyun's fingers, and Hyun’s scalpel glinting sharply at his own throat.

64.

The threat buys them just enough hesitation to run. Where, Saeran doesn’t know. He was going to hotwire a car but like this they have no time. They dash into the trees. The doctor doesn’t follow. Not yet.

65.

Saeran runs fast and Hyun keeps up with him, a soaring bird with a broken wing.

Saeran runs and runs and runs and Hyun runs just behind him.

Saeran runs and...suddenly Hyun isn’t there.

66.

Hyun isn’t anywhere.

67.

Saeran searches until every part of him is numb with cold.

68.

Hyun isn’t anywhere.

69.

He finds a trail of blood, tries to follow it back the way they came. If birdie’s been caught, he wants to be caught with him. And if birdie’s abandoned him then he wants to die.

70.

Saeran tips and falls over. He’s forgotten how to shiver.

71.

Saeran stares in a half-conscious daze. White is everywhere, his favorite color: in the sky, on the ground, piling up on his clothes. Maybe if he lays here long enough it’ll make everything white, cover up everything on this rotten earth. Smooth away everything until every thought and every feeling is gone.

The fast crunch-crunch of shoes in the snow comes towards him and then everything fades to black.

72.

When Saeran wakes he’s somewhere warm in place he doesn’t recognize, laying in a bed and covered in blankets. He catches sight of red hair and turns his head, reaching out like in a dream. He doesn't touch the cold surface of a mirror like he expects.

He touches a face that looks just like his.

Identical.

The rage Saeran expects to feel is gone, everything inside him like a pool of undisturbed water, a sheet of unbroken glass, far away from him. An unasked for tranquility. He spots paper, crumpled and blood-dotted, on the nightstand. A note. The one he’d had clutched in his fist for hours and had never looked at. He grabs it, smoothes it out. He recognizes his own handiwork instantly.

A hyacinth. For apologies.

The pool overflows. The glass breaks.

73.

_I wish I could come with you._

_But I’ve seen this day so many times_

_and this is the only thing I could figure out._

_I don’t know what happens to me after this._

_My dreams never made it past him finding you._

_But I’m an optimist, remember?_

_I want to believe we’ll see each other again._

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7jEaPDFL4g ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7jEaPDFL4g)


End file.
